Honey Help YourSelf

A great way to tell whether or not you’ve moved on from a former relationship, bad judgment, or old habits is to ask yourself this when you get worked up: Was I being a dummy or the real deal just now? I have an acquaintance I’ll call Sarah. I ran into her a few months back, and giving me the fish-eyed once over, she proceeded to fill me in on her latest exploits of grandeur. The she turned her attention to my new purple pencil-leg pants. Her sideways compliments shifted toward envy and an uncomfortable form of cult worship; she went on about how my pants were to-die-for, and when I saw her two weeks later, guess who had not only purchased my pants, but she boasted how she found them on markdown for a fraction of what I paid, too. Then she went on about how she’d placed an order for a green purse just like the one I often carry, only this one, she said, was updated. Sarah is harmless enough, really, but some days I have to dig a little deeper to find patience for her. Sarahs of the world annoy me because they’re the ones who appear like they have all the fun on Facebook, they’ve got the greatest luck, the best connections, the most money, the fewest issues, and to hear them tell it, a never-ending stream of admirers. The Sarahs of the world stop at nothing to remind us of their significance, which, ironically, makes them the opposite of all that. I think we’ve all probably known a Sarah (or her male equivalent) at some point, and every last one of them. Works. My. Nerves. I’m lucky to have friends I can tell the real deal to. I get to act a fool and spew my venom on the Sarahs of the world—and my friends have the same courtesy with me—and we don’t judge each other for it. I love that. During one such conversation with my friend Bailey, I said, That damn Sarah, what a dummy. She is such an imitator. I kept on about how annoying she was until there was nothing left to say about her. Then, as conversations go, Bailey and I worked our way around to new topics—and back again. I told my friend how I’d gone for a 5-mile run earlier that morning in 90-degree heat. She interrupted me rudely: And you said Sarah was the dummy? To keep the peace with your girlfriends, sometimes we must ignore their shortcomings and rudeness, mustn't we? I told Bailey about the elite runner who passed me twice on the path; she was gazelle-like, devouring the trail with her impressive pace. She was breathtaking as she glided along, where I shuffled and grunted by comparison. I gushed about the woman’s outfit; it was some kind of pyro-technical, moisture-wicking state-of-the-art ensemble I just couldn't be without. I it will lengthen my stride, regulate my O2 exchange, speed me along, optimize the wind resistance, and shave seconds off of my performance, I said. I just know it.  As I turned my attention to the elite woman’s outfit, my friend pointed out how my initial compliments had shifted into envy and slid from there into an uncomfortable form of cult worship. Well, when you put it like that... I said. Once again, the heavy hand of self-inquiry had given me the finger of reflection that pointed squarely at my many assumptions. Who are you calling a dummy and why? And what makes you the real deal? it asked. I’m telling you, the finger can be rough sometimes. I gave it all some thought—Sarah’s raving and my ranting—and I was reminded of some very important truths I’d like to run by you: 1. Dummies are driven by outward appearance. In both our cases, Sarah and I saw something outside ourselves that we were convinced we needed. We figured that looking the part would somehow change us for the better or improve our performance in an area we felt we were lacking. I can’t speak for Sarah’s logic, but there is no way a fancy short set was going to make be a faster runner. The bottom line was I had to put in my mileage, period. The gazelle knew it too; she was the real deal. And that leads me to my next point; 2.

You can’t judge a workshop by its title, especially if the wording includes orgasm, men, and fun in bed. I got an email a few months back from a women’s group that was hosting a “Man Whispering” workshop here in town. The course promised to disc...

The next time you rummage through your life in search of things to feel good about, I urge you start with your mirror. My friend Ron has the tiniest dimple. It’s just down and off to the right of her smile. Her smile is radiant, like flicking on...

  I was hanging a painting the other day when it occurred to me that I am a tool. Perhaps you’ve had your suspicions about this, but I can assure you it’s not for the reasons you think. “If I Had a Hammer” is a folk song I’ve always associated ...

Picture this: Two parents, two kids, and a dog, all happy at the beach. Both kids and one parent play in the water, splashing back and forth as crystal blue waves swell and break against them. The other parent and the dog remain on land, chilling in the sun. Suddenly the dog begins to bark, rushing toward the water. And then… I ran this scenario by ten different people and asked each one what happened next. Without fail, every one of them  offered up a tragic finale. The conclusions ranged from mildly disturbing to truly heartbreaking. The thing about my informal experiment was even though the reactions I got didn’t exactly shock me, the fact that I wasn’t shocked bothered me and caused me to investigate. Disappointments and pain will do drive-bys on us a lot in life, and no one is immune. On top of that, sometimes we’ll be subjected to people who seem to specialize in causing trouble, pushing buttons, and general crazymaking. Perhaps you know, love, work with or for someone like this? If so, may The Force be with you. Have you ever been caught off guard by love or joy that caused euphoria so complete it made you fear a string of bad luck wasn’t far behind? Do you ever catch yourself saying things like this when you’re really happy: I don’t want to push my luck? or I’d better quit while I’m ahead? This is a great indicator that reveals our tolerance for happiness. And the fact that those ten responses were unanimous is deep. Imagine going to an amusement park wearing full riot gear and crash padding just to ensure your safety. And let’s say you purchase a hefty insurance policy on the off chance that the fun gets dangerous. How much enjoyment can you really have like that? We know there are no guarantees beyond the obvious—that we will get hurt, we’ll make mistakes, and come up short sometimes—and no amount of padding, insurance, or precaution can protect us from risking our hearts for goodness' sake. To be sure, embracing happiness, love, and joy won’t make us immune to the pain of disappointment; they go one better by increasing our capacity to experience the goodness that these emotions can bring to our lives. And even if you’re still reeling from the latest hit to your heart, what good is it doing you to expect the worst? The other day I called my friend Lena and shared with her how excited I was about a creative project I'd been working on. I told her how the research I’d been doing was finally starting to come together. I told her how eager I’d been to finish what I started on a whim months ago. I admitted it felt great to imagine the work I was doing might help other people in some way. By the time we hung up, she was as psyched as I was and she let me know it. Basking in the glow of our shared excitement, I hung up the phone feeling happy about realizing the potential of all of my hard work. Within seconds, though, my thoughts of awesome slipped behind a storm cloud that washed out every great feeling I had just moments before. I stared at the phone, still warm in its cradle, and wondered whether anybody would really be interested in my work at all. Lena is my friend, I said, immediately dialing down our kind words of great expectation. She loves me and she supports me in whatever I’m working on. That’s what friends do, I told myself. It took all of ten seconds for my excitement to float, take on water, circle the drain, and disappear. Both feelings were real, but they came so quickly, the contrast literally made my head spin as I watched my emotions play out. That’s the funny thing about experiencing joy and happiness: there’s no way to feel fear at the same time. They may vie for center stage, but it’s up to us to choose which one wins out. We’ve been conditioned to expect the worst, to fear, to anticipate trouble, to ensure and insure against accidents, to protect what’s ours. And providing it keeps us out of harm’s way, then some types of caution are necessary.

You know that approach to seeing life as a glass that’s half full, half empty or both? What does it mean when there's nothing in the glass? There’s a lot to be said for nothing. The experience of emptiness, I mean. After all, it’s the empty glass that’s ready to be filled. The empty glass is receptive; it’s expectant. How I love the metaphor of being open. Then there’s the other emptiness. What I don’t like about it is that it shows up in unexpected places, in ways we can’t control. It would be different if I could schedule private time to feel awkward, insecure and disconnected, but it just so happens that before I can get around to planning for it, I’ve already put my foot in it for pretty much everyone to see. And that doesn’t do much for making me feel connected. Maybe you’re familiar with this experience? Emptiness likes to make its appearance when we feel alone or isolated. It can show up in a crowded room and entice us to judge, compare, withdraw and count up the differences between us and them. Emptiness scrapes us dry from the inside out, and it can expand like a void in space when it really revs up. To make much ado about nothing, emptiness drains away our hope and optimism, leaving us parched, bleak and despairing. The good news is emptiness isn’t all bad. In fact, it’s not bad at all if we give it a chance to soften and change us. It was two days ago. I’d pulled an all-nighter on a work project the day before. I was exhausted, down for the count. My task had overwhelmed me and put me in a sleeper hold; I was just about beat and I knew it. In the weeks prior, I’d paced the carpet down to a nub and bit my nails back to the quick. I pulled out every last lick of hair and chanted the great lamentations. I hurled myself to the floor in fits of consternation. Then, against every pitiful instinct in me, I met my friend LA for an afternoon run. I pulled into the dusty lot, relieved to see the smile on her face. Preparing to launch into the details of my despair, I began with, I’m running on empty. I got nothing. I swallowed hard. LA let me talk on for ten minutes or more. As we stretched our limbs and our muscles warmed, I ran on about the rigors of creativity, the precious nerves it burns, and the isolation it often entails. I explained to her that this is what happens when we’ve got nothing left and we’re nowhere near the finish. I’m really not sure how to move past this, I said. But I just know I have to. She nodded as we jogged east. With the first mile behind us, I fell quiet and settled into the crunch of gravel underfoot. We slowed heading south and then slowed some more before I noticed I wasn’t panting like I usually was by that point. LA winced, rubbed her knee and stopped. I’m really sorry about this, she said, but I’m scared I might have an injury. LA is a serious runner. The day before we met for our run, she’d completed a  twenty five mile training loop in preparation for an upcoming fifty mile race that’s going to be held at an altitude of more than fourteen thousand feet. Boulder rests at an altitude of barely six thousand feet. As she stretched and massaged her leg, LA told me how hard it was to carry on in the rain and cold of the previous day and that she’d gotten so soaked, she had to double back home after thirteen miles to change into dry clothes and hit the road again. She told me how depleted she was after hitting a wall at the eighteenth mile and wondered how she’d go on. That’s when, I shit you not, she said, a running mate appeared. She’d literally run into a friendly jogger who also happened to be a coach from out of town and was looking for route suggestions. They wound up running together and she got the surprise support she needed in the moment. For the next three miles we cycled in and out of running, all the while sharing our stories of fatigue and depletion. We related our experiences of isolation and the irony of sometimes despising what we loved to do most.

About that lecture I was going to do at the metaphysical fair last month: I’m happy to report it went really well. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t get the projector to play my presentation, and nobody seemed to care that I'd left my good shoes in the ...

If you know me at all, then you know know this line is one I frequent: ‘If I hear one more chirpy Do Gooder tell me to let my light shine, I think I might break something.’ My feelings still haven’t changed and I need to tell you why. When I first made that statement, it was in part for dramatic effect, but it was primarily in response to a woman who told me how tired she was of hearing New Agey types like me dole out flowery directives without suggesting how to keep on shining. She already knew that letting her light shine—or daring to be her real self by taking up space in the world without asking anybody’s permission—sometimes meant letting her ass get kicked by life in the process. Which likely explains why she wound up in my course in the first place: she wanted support for those times it felt like all people wanted to do was put her lights out. When a chirpy Do-Gooding New Ager says, “Let your light shine,” here’s what it sounds like to me: Permit the blissful radiance of The Divine to surge outward through your primordial essence to illumine the darkness of this manifest world like a spiritual lightning bug flickering thither and yon and alighting joyously upon your midnight rose of quivering despair. Barf. These are but a few of my issues with Chirpy Do Gooders:
1.) Chirpy Do Gooders speak in flowery tones most of the time, and real people—people who give themselves access to their full range of emotions—don’t limit themselves to just one spot on the dial. That’s because as humans, every now and again, we lose it. We cry ugly, we get messy, we goof and struggle. And if Chirpy Do Gooders do, they don’t let on. And I don’t like that. 2.) Chirpy Do Gooders are so consumed with ‘healing’ and being bubbly that they’re useless. My aunt Cleo used to say religious zealots were so holy, high and mighty that they weren’t no earthly good. It’s hard to relate to them because, well, see #1. How can we take people like that seriously? 3.) Chirpy Do Gooders don’t give us the whole story. People who only hand me the rosy part of the picture leave out the thorns, which are as much a part of the image as the rest. It’s a disservice to omit the fact that answering the inward call to shine and be oneself in the world is a carefree affair. It’s not. It often comes as an inconvenience and at great cost—a cost we can’t grasp until we’re in the thick of it. Remember that phrase coined by the late American mythologist and teacher, Joseph Campbell? He coined the phrase, “Follow you bliss.” I believe he meant it as a guide to living an intentional life in service to discovering the best that's in us. But, wouldn’t you know it, Chirpy Do Gooders swooped in and disfigured its meaning in the years that followed. Campbell later grumbled, ‘I should have said, follow your blisters’ because it’s a huge mistake to overlook the sacrifice and hard work required along the way toward becoming. We lost a lot of greats last year. Within the span of ten days, the world said goodbye to three luminaries who touched our lives in ways we may never fully comprehend. There was Wangari Maathai, whose fierce environmental and political activism earned her a Nobel Peace prize. There was Steve Jobs, whose innovative design and creative vision changed the way the world computes. There was Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth, whose fearless pursuit of freedom and equality not only introduced Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to the world, but it also put the cause of civil rights at the forefront of American politics. Each of these pioneers let their light shine. Despite the many odds against them—powerful opposition from the status quo, unthinkable political pressure, no proper offices from which to work, no benefits nor backup plans, personal failures made public, and in some cases, racism, and persistent death threats—they followed the call of their convictions without buckling under the tremendous weight they carried.

After countless hours of indecisive fence sitting, second guessing and delay, I have no other choice than to award this medal to … Sabotage! Well, the votes are in and you’ve done it one more time. You have obliterated the competition—me—by creeping into my blind spot and, if I may be frank and earnest, I just–well, how do you do that? Before you take the stage again, I’d like to acknowledge your career is among the longest in any industry and you’ve been the tops in every category, barring none. I am boggled at this victory, humbled, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the teensiest bit jealous! I’m going to call you up here in just a minute to accept your award for Best Performance, but before I do, I’d like to present a few noteworthy highlights from your career that have directly impacted my life: SOME ENCHANTED EVENINGS: THE ANTHOLOGY  Your prolific work in the romance genre has been copied, shared, distributed and referenced in countless collections for a really long time. It’s astounding, the way you keep telling those same old stories of ones who got away, of misplaced affections and missed connections, of emotional awkwardness and creaky third wheels. It’s legendary stuff that keeps our hearts racing in place—and broken. TITANIC  We’re still scratching our heads on this one. An iceberg. Really? This role might have been your best physical acting yet. You were stoic as a rock, wordless—no lines!—frigid. Hidden in plain sight, you were perfect. What composure! And we thought Costner was cold! What an understatement that was. You really held your own and you even inspired a fleet of plastic recorder music. Awesome. WTF ‘N’ THE BADASS BOYZ  Speaking of your inspiration in music, I absolutely love that you went in and set the industry on its ear so that artists can reach their own fans, sell their own stuff and go around the top-heavy music mill if they feel like it. But I just wish you’d do something about all of the misogyny and hateration. It doesn’t do much good for the people, you know? I guess we shouldn’t expect much; look who I’m talking to. THE UNWRITTEN  Even more than your impressive work in Titanic, the way you insinuated yourself into this one was out-and-out genius. The Unwritten is the tragicomic horror story of a good-intentioned writer who sets weekly deadlines, but can’t get a damn thing done. I don’t know if you planned it like this, but the main character’s name was Kriste. I found that fascinating. Crazy, but she looked like me too. Like, she was me, but only, not. If I might say a few more words about this last one, ladies and gentlemen? Sabotage, I’m downright baffled as to how you knew so much about me, and how you managed to conduct your research. You infiltrated my place and created a totally warped story of me. So much so that I have to ask: was that your intention, to make a mockery of me? For the record, this production of yours is unauthorized, and I may pursue damages. Before I wrote this speech—this acceptance of my defeat—I wrestled for a long time with the truth of it. I didn’t want to believe it. You should know; you were there, buttering me up as the hours and deadlines passed. You never let on you were undermining my every hope of a win. You encouraged me to rest on my laurels, and I did. You did a lot last week, Kriste, you said. Take a break, you said. Then you served me a nightcap and that was all she wrote. How about that scene where your Kriste sat down to work, doing great for about an hour? Then you came and plumped the pillows. You shifted her to the softer chair, dimmed the lights and pointed her attention to the night sky. You told her to take in the spring air because it was good for creativity. I watched, nervous and thought, Oh, no. What will she do? Well, she went to the window, walked out the door, and left her deadline to the dogs. I guess I’m here to present this medal because I’m so familiar with your work.

I’m on the phone recently with a girlfriend until the wee hours discussing one of the most inevitably precarious and tiresome topics known to man: men. Based on my girlfriend’s personal research, extensive dating history, and painstaking observations, she concluded men don’t communicate well, they’re low-down, on the down-low, no-good, posturing, emotional inverts who refuse to grow up and damn them, she added, for being the only datable options available to straight women. Adding to her aggravation, I chimed in where our experiences overlapped, and by the end of the talk, our voices raspy and spent from the analysis, we went about our business, affirmed in our assertions of the opposing sex. I’m at a coffee bar last week, trying to finalize this post when I overhear a group of attractive women pitching fits over that same guy who just doesn’t get it; he won’t do right, doesn’t call back, can’t commit, and wouldn’t know a good woman if she stalked him on Facebook then appeared at his door, which, I gathered some of them had. Like my friend’s rant, the frustration turned to laughter that was giddy and contagious, and it floated through the room like a bright balloon riding high on its own hot air. Bubbles like that always need hot air to keep them afloat. I want to talk about what you can do when they sag, droop, and burst. The gift of having good friends as sounding boards to vent my stuff with lets me relax in knowing I’ve got a safe place to go when I’ve had it; I can be real with them; I can cut up and act a fool, and that's a much needed relief all its own. It can also be a tricky line to walk, being painfully honest when the hurt goes deep. But let's keep in mind those people who stay stuck in the vent: what they don't get is there's no room to breathe or navigate in that space and before too long, that space becomes a trap. Last year I went to a social mixer. The special feature of the event was that singles were encouraged to bring their wingmen along for the fun. As I understand it, wingmen are male sidekicks who tag along with male friends to help make introductions to potential dates. I'd never heard of wingmen for women, and guy friends told me it didn't make sense for women to have men pump them up to would-be boyfriends. Nonsense, I said. What great lady couldn't use an equally awesome male counterpart speaking favorably about her to men she's interested in? I certainly don't know any woman who'd mind having a good guy say great things about her, do you? We already know there are plenty of men who don't on a daily unsolicited basis. Well, I couldn't get a wingman. (But, my friend Bill would have been if he could have!) So, I drew a deep breath, pumped myself up like the biggest balloon in the room and floated off to the function. To tell you how much of a poorly executed, mighty failure it was would be a waste of everybody's time, but I can't let it go without telling you that the chasm between people wanting connection is as wide as it is deep, and by the looks of that mixer, seems it's riddled with rusted nails, greased banana peels, cut glass, battery acid, and emotional razor wire, too. I mention the horrible mixer to tell you that, even with all of our education and new-millennium gadgetry, social networking and so-called 'communication', if you put strange grown folks in a room and leave them to their own raggedy mingling devices—not the cellular or electronic kind—you couldn't have a more colossal mess on your hands if you'd tried to direct Tokyo traffic with an arm behind your back. By the end of the night, despite my own manufactured efforts to speak to everyone in the room—making the rounds as the self-appointed event photographer—I went home feeling defeated and that much worse for going at all. So much for pumping up and hot air. And this is but part of the tragedy: it seems we're so terrified of rejection and extending ourselves to each other,

Several factors went into the creation of this post and not the least of which is my having recently seen the cheesy tearjerker of a movie that inspired this title. Sandra Bullock also happens to star in this film and—purely as an aside—Sandy's a publi...

Now that it’s spring and winter has begun to loosen its grip all around us, there's no better time for nurturing the seeds of dreams we planted a few months back. Remember in January when I lobbied like mad for The Revolution? Well, in doing so I consequently plunged myself into a deep sea of change by deciding to get even more serious about my goals. By this time it shouldn't surprise anybody to learn I’m an expert at knowing how I work—and at knowing how I get tempted to shirk my work once I'm seeing results—so, this time around, I made sure to put some supports in place that keep me honest when the lure of bad habits started to tug at my growth. And you? Have you enlisted this kind of help for yourself? Have you surrounded yourself with folks who keep you focused on your stuff? Do you check in with them to answer for your actions—and your inaction if that's the case? Better yet, who are you supporting in their personal season of revival? Bearing in mind the very real truth of reciprocity, in that what goes around comes around, you'll find that sincerely encouraging someone else to break new ground will work wonders to scoot you along in the progress. There's a caveat here too: you've got to make sure your your intentions are genuine when you lend a hand. Otherwise, if you start attaching strings and conditions to your support, they'll choke off the flow of your growth like the worst kind of weed, and before you know it, you'll start focusing on the thorns and mud wondering why you bothered at all. If you don't yet know who your key people are, then let me suggest 4 questions to help you identify them. Don't be discouraged if no one comes quickly to mind; it's just a matter of discovering them. Bigger still is the fact that as you become the answer to each of these questions, finding others who fit the bill will get that much easier: 1. Who's the first person you call when something great—or terrible—happens? 2. Whom can you trust to tell you the truth in a way that doesn't wreck your relationship or jeopardize your confidence in yourself? 3. Who gets excited when you excel and win? 4. Who comes around to love you up when you're down, broke, and depressed? Like I said, I put a few friends and fellow changelings on notice and, personally, while I think they might have a little too much fun kicking me in my crap and pointing out the less than amazing aspects to my plans, never once do they enable my excuses and blustery explanations as to why I'm not doing my work. Besides, I said I gave up excuses for Lent, remember? As I continue to experience the rush and boom of my revolutions, I'm reminded time and again that the magic to any achievement is sustained hard work. No amount of affirming, energy and imagination are going to do the actual work for you. Granted, intention, faith, attitude, and all the other unquantifiables are important. Equally important, though, is the amount of effort you put into your labor of love. To resolve to achieve something means we’re determined; it means we’re setting down a firm decision to do things differently. And putting action behind it—and all around it—demands responsibility, accountability, a fair amount of creative challenge, and surrender to the known and unknown unknowns. Even if you’ve convinced yourself you just can’t do the thing you said you would, or somehow you've worked it out all by yourself that your ideas once striding and brilliant have now fallen lame, I urge you to take a second, third, hundredth look, and be honest. Brutally so. Then figure out what still matters and get back in the game. Don’t bother bringing your C-level work, either; that just won’t do. Imagine if a C-level spring rolled in and instead of our usual billion birds chirping and the sun blazing its brightest, what if all we got was a handful of bloated, broken-winged birds and a dreary sun that barely peaked past the horizon line each day?

Last year I received a request from a women’s conference to deliver an essay based on the theme of success. At first I wasn’t sure how much I had to say on the topic. Then it took me a minute to register that I was being viewed as successful in the eyes of the women who approached me. I said 'Yes,' I wrung my hands, mulled it over, and Phoenix Rising is the result. Whenever I sit down to write I inevitably find myself scanning the room for inspiration. With my hands poised directly above my keyboard, I cock my head to one side and stare into the void of my office (which, to civilian eyes, is my kitchen table). Sometimes, I peer into the dusty corners, looking for lines I might have tossed aside in a fit of creative excess. Other times, I perform a mental sweep along the baseboards, scavenging for misplaced phrases that would give my material wings. I’m a writer, and this is my waiting game of choice: looking and listening for the faintest break in the stillness, pining for that magical moment when the literal and figurative walls break down and talk to me if for nothing else that to lead me out of my creative fog long enough to set me on dry ground again. Unfortunately for me, this method isn’t without its flaws. For starters, inspiration rarely comes when called, and outright brilliance turns up with even less frequency. The good news, though, is this: whether my elusive muse shows up or not, I never stop writing. And I have the Phoenix to thank for that. Celebrated among cultures from Asia to the Americas as a symbol of redemption and second chances, longsuffering and determination, the Phoenix has come to define the very notion of success for me. So has the Sankofa bird. Less widely known than the Phoenix, the Sankofa bird is popular figure in West African traditions and is shown flying forward while looking back. This depiction reminds us, in addition to the timeless message of the phoenix, that we cannot truly move forward without first learning from the past. Once I settled into doing this essay—and to first stare at the walls—it was the vibrantly colored painting of this mythical bird that immediately captured my attention. I’d always been drawn to its rich colors and bold strokes; I admired at once the confidence and power in it. But, it wasn’t until I’d lived with the piece for quite some time that I realized the significance of the painted bird’s gaze: it was looking over its shoulder. And the flames that seemed to be licking at its tail feathers were propelling it upward with the intensity of a rocket being launched. As I lingered on this image I realized that not only was this mythical bird anything but a static fairytale or pawn drummed up by long-ago tribes of so-called primitive people from various spots around the globe, I knew this creature was real. I mean, she lived. Who else but a determined resilient, determined female could harness her supernatural resources to repeatedly transcend the stifling limitations placed on her by a short-sighted culture? Who but a female—a woman with a mission in mind—could bear the heat of having to reinvent herself every time her life demanded it? And, none other than a seriously focused woman could fly boldly toward her goal while taking into full account all of the flops and victories and close calls of the past. Little did I know how much this brilliant work of art and this notion of success had to teach me. I’ve learned 2 things about success:          Success is relative. And;        Success has everything to do with failure. As an artist, friend, teacher, student, sister, daughter, speaker, seeker and businesswoman, I know that in each role I play, success looks very different. I count being willing to be vulnerable in my close relationships—and having enough courage to ask for what I really need—as major success, given the fact that I wasn’t born into a family that won any prizes for modeling healthy relationships.

With my birthday fast approaching, I find myself thinking a lot about where my life is headed, about how I got here, and about what all the seemingly scattered bits and pieces of my eclectic experience up to this point is supposed to mean. The more I considered it all, the less I got. And that frustrated me on account of I'm older now and, according to The Rules, I'm supposed to have answers. Isn't it written somewhere that, at my age, I'm supposed to have arrived at some profoundly paradigm-shifting realizations about the new post-racial, post-post-feminist, green-leaning world order and my place in it all? Isn't it my job to be up on these issues since I am, after all, the world's foremost expert on me? How come, instead, I'm sitting up in the middle of the night, tapping out an inconclusive entry when what I initially hoped for was to show up on the page oozing enlightenment, a shining example of fabulousness that so many women seem to exude without trying? Even when I was a tweener, those women, fully self-actualized at the crest of their respective sexual, psychological, and socially-oriented peaks seemed more mythic than real and unlike any of the women I knew. They were presented as larger-than-life modern-day goddesses who handily straddled demanding worlds of home, husbands, and high-profile jobs in stacked pumps, power suits, and perfect hair. Not only did they bring home the bread, they came bearing bacon too, fried it up for their guys, and never, never let them forget they were men. I had no clue what that was supposed to look like in real life, and wondered if it involved me tailing him around the house—when I wasn't busy making bacon sandwiches—affirming his sex by way of verbal reinforcement each time he behaved mannishly. Would it have warranted a constant clutching at his crotch as a loving reminder of his ever present maleness? I simply didn't know. Fast forward a couple of decades beyond my tweens, and I'm still marveling at middle-aged ladies who seem to do, be, and have it all. How'd they manage that? If it looks like I'm playing at comparisons here, you'd be right. I'd even add that after more than enough time spent stacking my life experiences up against this unbelievable standard, it's obvious to me I was losing out every time I measured my life against values that hardly had me in mind. Even though I've always known this in my head, there's a lot to be said for embodying a belief. Because when what you know in your head also resides in your bones, there's no going back. At least, not in the same way. Ever again. I can appreciate the twists and turns that brought me here to this very spot on my crushed velvet couch in snow-capped Colorado—for all of the short-lived loves, the interminable tests of faith, for loyal friends, for heart-and-mind-expanding travel, for committed students and teachers, for wonderful clients, an unconditionally loving pal of a cat, and more. For it all, I'm grateful. In my world, pan frying will burn if you're not careful. And if my man doesn't already know he's a man, then he'd better move on because it's not likely I can convince him. All told, when we step out of the losing game of applying other people's standards to our own lives, we get to see how clearly, possibly, our experiences knit together in a synchronous pattern, and we get a great reminder that all truly is well. Here's a quote I love from Charles Schulz, creator of Pigpen, Linus, Peppermint Patty, Chucky B, Snoopy and the gang. It reminds me that, to the extent I'm able to embrace and celebrate the treasure of this unique journey as my own, guess what? I win. He said: My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I'm happy. I can't figure it out. What am I doing right? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - You might also like: Don't Stop Believin! Phoenix Rising The Gift of Receiving Ruts Ducks  

A few weeks ago my friend Matt and I were talking about our various projects and how this or that fear was making us squeamish about taking our much needed next steps. Maybe you remember Matt from the Reflections post? Back then he was toying with the idea of starting a business. Actually, it was more like he was being toyed with—by his fear and doubt. Today Matt has the luxury of having a new set of fear that's based on how to run the business he courageously started. No longer worrying about whether he could do it at all, now my friend finds himself skittish about issues of time management and choosing which among his many projects to develop. These are excellent problems to have, I reminded him. You'd never have faced this batch of fear if you didn't decide to go for it in the first place, way back when. It's amazing what we discover by looking back at what used to scare us, if only to be shown that we made it through; we lived to fight (and squirm) another day. Whether you went boldly with your head held high, or if you got dragged screaming and wailing through your challenges—you made it, honey! And that is the victory that we must not overlook. I look at fear as a scavenger, spiraling silently overhead waiting to swoop in and pick over the steaming remnants of my freshly deferred dreams. No need to seek it out in the skies, or defend against this buzzard because—trust me on this—it will be there, ready and ravenous the moment you give up on your goal. (And by the way, how's your New Year Revolution going?) It's in no rush and you better believe the old buzzard is patient and can outlast any of your indecisive, cowardly fence-sitting. It can smell defeat in us as soon as we let up on the thing we want, and it knows when we're about to succumb. Oh, the things our fear knows about us! As Matt and I talked we laughed at how easy it was to short-circuit our respective gripe sessions going straight to what we were up against: our fear. Only then were we able to relax and explore creative ways to move forward. Personally, I think everyone needs a confidant to share fears with. And we need reminders that, while scavengers will always be there preying on what looks like our weakness, we don't have to give ourselves to it entirely. Fear and real-life scavengers are natural players in the life cycle, and they can take on the form of negative family, friends, spouses, old ideas, and anything that makes us doubt our own dream. I've found that acknowledging my fear can keep me sharp if I let it. I've also experienced the grief of seeing it devour my hopes more times than I'll tell you about. Not to make it out to be such a bad thing, fear can also offer us a good laugh when we let it. I came across an old list of fears I created as part of a personal growth project from way back. Anyway, by the time I'd finished my list, I was surprised at how much room I'd made for moving on—toward greater fear, even bigger buzzards, and problems I'm thrilled to be facing nowadays. Just curious, but can you see yourself in any of these? 1. I'm afraid of failure. Who wants to bear/bare their souls or bright ideas or even a new outfit or Significant Other and be subject to anything less than a warm reception and marching band? Taking the risk is risky. I've got a million ideas, and I've had plenty of them flop in the past. I couldn't possibly present another one to public scrutiny. There's a chance it could go belly up like my other Stuff. Leave all the creativity to people who really know what they're doing, right? 2. I'm afraid of success. So let's say I do venture forward with my Big Ideas, and somebody actually thinks it's neat. And then, what if lots of people glom onto it and look to me to churn out even more, better, neater ideas and I come up short? I can't possibly let everyone down like that. So maybe it's better to stay where I am and not venture out into the deep waters of success. Besides,